


Patron

by MissNaya



Series: S I N [4]
Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Backstory, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Drowning, First Time, Gun Violence, Guro, Immortals, M/M, Medical Procedures, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: As Jason finds out what's waiting for him in Black Mask's basement, he reflects on what -- or who -- got him into this situation.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Jason Todd
Series: S I N [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844974
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Patron

**Author's Note:**

> hey, y'all! this is my longest installment in this series yet, and one I was most excited to bring to you!
> 
> this has the jayroman that I'm sure you all want, with a little something extra and self-indulgent in there for me. :) not that jayroman isn't also very self-indulgent, but... you get what I'm saying! mind the tags, read the fic!!

Jason comes to in a small room with a medical feel. At least, that’s the vibe he gets from the sterile look of the place, with bleach-white cabinets and a box filled with gloves, a monitor near the metal table he’s strapped to.

And, of course, there’s the person in a lab coat readying a syringe. That’s pretty damn medical, too.

Slowly, he tests his limbs. He’s on the table face-down, cheek wet with the puddle of drool he’s lying in. He’s bound tight with straps across his back, waist, and legs, with additional cuffs chaining him down by his wrists and ankles. He can barely move an inch.

As he becomes more aware of his surroundings, he hears a voice.

“--don’t know what facility he was born in, so we’ll have to use the Janus number for that. And since we don’t have a mother on file, I can just put in a placeholder.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get it done. Boss wants ‘im downstairs ASAP.”

“Right.” The wheels of a chair squeak across the floor as the woman speaking rolls up next to the table. When she sees his eyes open, she greets him with an, “Ah, you’re awake. This usually goes a little smoother when the subject is unconscious, but you’ll just have to soldier on through it, okay?”

Jason doesn’t know what he’s supposed to soldier on through. He wants to spit at the woman, but his brain must still be stitching the last bits of itself back together, because he finds he can’t work up the muscle to do it. Just keeps drooling there onto the cold metal table.

“There, there.” She reaches out and pets his hair, and he can’t move away. “We’re just going to chip you, that’s all. Only takes a second.”

That startles a jolt out of Jason. Chipped? So he can be permanently marked as owned, so there’s nowhere he can run without being found? Absolutely fucking not.

But the woman doesn’t care about his thrashing. “Now, it’s alright. It only hurts for a minute or so, then you’ll heal right back up. Poor dear, you’ve never been through this before, have you? Here…”

She rolls her chair back and grabs a laminated sheet of paper from the nearby desk. Printed on it is the backside of a skeleton, from the shoulders up. She points to a circled vertebra near the base of the skull.

“Now, we just insert the chip into the bone here using a special needle. Your body will heal around it,” she says, “and that’s all there is to it!”

Jason thinks over the implications of what she just said. He’s never known the details of microchipping before, but now it makes sense as to how it works so well. In order to dig it out, you’d have to cripple yourself from the neck down. It’ll heal, of course, but the time it takes would leave any immortal vulnerable to being discovered by their owner. You could get a second person to help you out, he supposes, but that introduces even more risks, more possibilities of being captured.

The doctor puts the paper down and picks the syringe back up.

“Alright, don’t struggle too much,” she says, examining the long, thick needle carefully. “If I miss, we’ll have to dig it out and do it all over again, and without Nopan, that won’t be very fun, now will it?”

Of course. Of course they haven’t given him any Nopan. Not that Jason’s ever really had any in his system; the medical-grade stuff is reserved for registered slaves only, and the back-alley versions are usually cut with all sorts of nasty shit. No amount of pain relief has ever been worth it to Jason to try.

Now, he’s wondering if that was a mistake.

But he can’t do anything as the doctor approaches him with the syringe. He can’t do anything as she slides it into the back of his neck. And he sure as shit can’t do anything when it pierces his bone, except let out a long, low howl of pain.

“Shh, shh, I know,” she says, like she’s comforting a wild animal. “I know. We’re almost done. Aaaand… There!” There’s a bit of pressure, and then the needle withdraws. “Now, you just need to sit tight while that heals up, and you’ll be on your way.”

_As if I can do anything else,_ Jason thinks with a sneer. The pain lasts a hell of a lot longer than she said it would as his body works to slowly heal around the chip. She pets his hair while it happens.

“Alright, alright,” comes that other voice from before. Male. Irritated. “Can I take ‘im now?”

“One second,” the doctor says, swiveling her chair around to the monitor. “Just have to input the information…”

Jason watches her while she types.

_S I N: #01-386-XX-01_

_Given Name: Jason_

_Owner: Roman B. Sionis_

_Phone Number…_

And just like that, line by line, Jason watches his free life dissipate into nothingness.

No. No, this isn’t the moment when his freedom was snatched.

That happened a few months ago.

It’s a dark and cold night in Gotham, and Jason is huddled up in one of the old, abandoned stone prison cells from the 1800s, preserved as a cultural landmark of the city. The cells aren’t in a building as much as they are built one-by-one right into the park that sits not far from the harbor. They were used during the War of 1812, which he learned from reading a few books during those times when he was bold enough to enter a library.

These days, they’re good for little more than a tourist attraction, or, more commonly, as a teen party site or a shelter for the homeless.

Like him, right now.

With nothing but a hoodie to keep him warm, Jason sits near the back of the cell where it’s less damp. Graffiti is scrawled all around him, from “FUCK MAYOR HILL” to “call Kendra for a good time” to “6969 420 sexxxxxx.” He’s managed to clear this cell of litter, old beer cans and crushed-up empty cigarette cartons, but it does little to make the place more homey.

Still. It’s better than nothing.

He doesn’t really want to, but because he’s desperate to feel some semblance of warmth, Jason fishes a lighter and half of a cigarette out of his pocket. He’s been saving it for a rainy day, and, well, with the clouds looming above him like they are, it seems like that day has come.

The lighter clicks on, briefly illuminating the dank cell. After that, there’s only the cherry of his cigarette to light up the place, which is for the best. Makes it harder to see the bugs and rats lingering in the corners.

He takes in a few slow breaths, reveling in the feeling of smoke curling in his lungs. He isn’t a chainsmoker, can’t afford it, but he enjoys it when he gets the chance. Even if it means fishing half-used cigarettes out of garbage cans or public ashtrays.

What? It’s not like he can get sick. Immortals don’t pick up contagions. Or, more accurately, their bodies heal them before symptoms can manifest. Same difference.

As he sits there with his eyes closed, the sounds around him become clearer. Birds chirping as the last of them settle down for the night. The distant rumbling of thunder.

And… footsteps?

Quickly, he snuffs out the cigarette, but it’s too late. A shadow rounds the corner, and from the way it stops, Jason can tell he’s been spotted. He sits there with his hackles raised, fight or flight response ticking on.

The only way out of the cell is through the front bars, where the figure looms. So he guesses he has to fight.

Before he can ask who the fuck it is, though, a voice calls out.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

It’s gentle. Jason doesn’t necessarily trust the figure because of that, but at least it isn’t the booming voice of a cop demanding him to clear out or risk arrest.

“What?” he replies.

“Sorry— Could I come in? It looks like it is about to rain, and—”

“Other cells are free,” Jason says. “Use one of those.”

The figure seems to turn to look around, but then turns back. It — he, from the sounds of it — lets out a sheepish laugh.

“Alright. That is fair. But I was hoping, perhaps, for some company.” A beat. “Or a puff of your cigarette.”

Jason rolls his eyes. Of course. But, against his better judgement, he waves the man in. Knows that he’s asked to bum cigs off of people plenty of times. Pay it forward, right?

“You can have the last of this one,” he says, picking up the discarded cigarette, “but that’s all I got.”

“You’re too kind,” the man says, ducking into the cell. Jason waits until he’s close enough, then passes him what’s now maybe a quarter of a cigarette. As the man puts it into his mouth, Jason flicks on his lighter.

Now that they’re closer and he has a light, Jason can see more of the stranger’s face. A dark tan. Thick black facial hair. And some sort of headscarf he struggles to remember the name for — keffiyeh? Shemagh? Something like that.

Then the light clicks out, and they’re left back in relative darkness again.

Luckily, it seems like this man isn’t the touchy-feely type, because he retreats to sit with his back to the other side of the cell. Jason watches the cherry bob up and down as he inhales, then the gray smoke comes out in a plume, obscuring what little he can see of his face.

“Thank you,” the man says after a moment.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jason says with a wave.

“No,” the man continues, “I appreciate your kindness. Truly. My name is Asad. May I ask yours?”

Jason hesitates for a moment, before he decides it doesn’t really matter. “Jason.”

“Jason.” Asad smiles. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Same.”

They sit in silence for another few minutes as Asad finishes the cigarette. Jason studies his silhouette carefully, searching for any sign that this man could be a danger to him. He doesn’t think he can see the bulge of any concealed weapons, but knives are easy to carry without being noticeable. He should know. There’s no telltale bulk under his shirt spelling out the presence of a bulletproof vest. No shake in his hands like he’s a druggie about to have an outburst.

But, when Asad reaches up to scratch his neck, Jason sees something glint in the low light of the cherry.

A collar.

He must be staring, because a minute later, Asad pulls up his shirt collar, obscuring the metal one around his neck. Jason looks up at his face, a million questions shining inside his eyes.

Asad answers one for him. “This is my first night out. On my own, that is. I… Are you going to call them? The authorities?”

Jason doesn’t have to think about it before he shakes his head. “Don’t even have a phone. Wouldn’t if I did.”

Asad exhales. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Jason shrugs, uncomfortable with the gratitude. It’s not like he’s doing something great or noteworthy, after all; he’s just doing what anyone decent would do.

Then again, there aren’t a whole lot of decent people left in the world.

A moment or two later, Asad snuffs out the light, leaving them back in pitch blackness. Somehow, that makes it easier for Jason to ask, to pry.

“Who you running from?”

Asad pauses, and, in what little ambient moonlight there is reaching through the bars when the clouds move the right way, Jason can see him furrow his brow.

“You don’t have to tell me if—”

“The Falcone family.”

Jason blinks, then lets out a low whistle. “Whew. Good riddance to _that_ shit, am I right?”

He catches a flash of teeth across from him. A smile. “That is certainly one way to put it, yes.” Asad pauses. “...And you? If I may ask.”

Immediately, Jason’s pulse quickens. He feels his palms start to sweat.

“Oh, no no— I’m not, um. I’m not… like you,” he says. “My parents, they kicked me out. Caught me with some pot. I’m just— just kicking it around here for a while. Y’know. ‘Til things blow over.”

“Ah.” Asad nods. “I am sorry for assuming. I just have not known such kindness from humans in the past.”

Jason wants to snort, to say _you got that right._ But he’s pretending now, pretending to be a real human being, so he can’t commiserate with this (former) slave no matter how much he wants to.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “I’ve never really been into the whole ‘immortals aren’t people, treat ‘em like garbage’ shit. Fuck that, right?”

Asad chuckles. “Yes. Fuck that, indeed. It is funny… I do not see many humans who share the same sentiment.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason says. “There should be a hell of a lot more people like me, if there’s any justice in the world.”

Asad nods. Again, the silence settles around them like darkness. Jason picks at a loose thread on his beaten-up sneakers, awkwardly feeling the stranger’s eyes on him.

Then, he speaks.

“Um, pardon me… But do you, perhaps, have anything that might help me get this off?”

Jason looks up to see him tugging at his collar.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, right,” he says, patting around in his pockets. He pulls out a small knife, thin, more of a multi-tool than something strictly for self-defense. “Here, lemme try this…”

Getting up to cross the cell, he kneels down next to Asad. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but the keyhole is just large enough for him to slip the blade into.

“Stay still…” he mutters, licking his lips. “We’ll get you outta that, just hang tight…”

It takes some fiddling, but Jason has picked locks before. Never one quite like this, but a lock is a lock, right? Eventually, something clicks, and the collar comes apart and falls to the stone floor.

Immediately, Asad’s hand goes to his throat. “Thank you. Thank you…”

“Like I said,” Jason tells him with a pat on the back, “don’t mention it. Least I can do.”

He stands and stalks back to his side of the cell. But before he can sit down, he thinks he hears something, a sound rolling in on the wind. Might _just_ be the wind, he thinks, but no… No. He knows that sound.

And, as the red and blue lights start to appear in the dreary distance, he wonders if he’s made a big mistake.

To get downstairs, they roll him strapped to the type of gurney you might use on Hannibal Lecter. Straps across his whole body again, this time with his head strapped down, too, Jason can do nothing but move his eyes to look around wherever he can.

It isn’t until a big set of double doors open and the smell of blood hits him that Jason realizes where he is.

It’s a fucking slaughterhouse.

Except “slaughter” isn’t technically the right word, is it? No… Not when the people strapped into stalls like cattle can’t actually die. That’s what keeps it “humane,” keeps the people in power from doing anything to stop it.

That, and the Nopan.

Every meaty _thwack_ of a machine chopping into someone’s body is followed by a moan. The air reeks of sex as well as gore, people with missing limbs or breasts or even genitals writhing around, begging for more. It’s a hot, stinking place, and Jason doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be anywhere else.

But the guards wheeling him around don’t dump him into an empty stall. They keep going through the large warehouse, taking twists and turns that seem entirely unnecessary, probably just to show him what he’s in for. Then they reach a subtle but heavy door on the other end of the slaughterhouse, and one guard grunts as he pulls it open.

The stairs lead straight down into near-blackness. The guards roll him down without a care for how much he gets bumped around. And why should they? He’s only a regen, after all.

The smell that hits him when they make it down the stairs is much worse than the one upstairs. The stench of blood is overwhelming, mixed with bile, piss, and stale sex. Jason doesn’t let it show on his face, but his heart starts to pound.

This isn’t what he was expecting. This isn’t what he thought he’d be in for.

They lead him through a hallway with a few dingy cells. In them sit people covered in dirt and grime, either looking away hurriedly when they see the guards, staring blankly into the distance, or sitting with their heads buried in their knees.

As they pass, Jason thinks he hears a sob.

The hallway opens up into a wide room, and it’s every sane human’s worst nightmare. There are racks. Chains. Weapons. Things that Jason has never seen before, whose functions he couldn’t hope to guess. The guards stop in the middle of the room, and Jason feels a bead of sweat roll down his face.

“Now,” one of the guards says, pulling out a shiny pistol. “Don’t make any funny moves, or else yer gonna be takin’ another nice, long nap.”

He points it to Jason’s head, and Jason just nods. He wants to do something. Wants to snatch that gun out of the bastard’s hand and mow the pair of them down, then free all the poor fuckers in the cells.

But he can’t. He has a mission to do.

When he sees the cop car lights, Jaon shoots an accusatory look at Asad, who quickly throws up his hands.

“It was not me, I swear,” he says. “I wish for freedom just as much as you.”

It’s a little strange to say, considering Jason never really indicated much of a desire for freedom. The man speaks the truth, though. He doesn’t want to be locked up, tossed in some cold cell and found out for what he really is.

“We have to go. Now,” Jason says. “They’re probably gonna do a sweep of the area. Fucking pigs always chase us outta here.”

“Right— Yes,” Asad says, quickly getting up and dusting himself off. He casts a long look at his collar, then looks up to Jason. “Lead the way.”

Making as little noise as possible, Jason slips through the bars and out into the cold. It’s begun to drizzle a bit. Through the haze, from atop the hill where the cells sit, Jason can see the cars approaching fast. Soon they’ll be at the car park not far from where he and Asad are. And hell, they may not even be looking to do a sweep, but Jason isn’t going to take that chance.

He remembers his father. How he always used to say, “The police aren’t your friends. _Never_ trust a cop, do you understand me? They’ll find some reason to lock you up, and bam! There goes your freedom.”

He’s lived by those words ever since. Now is no different.

Except for the fact that he’s running with someone, for once.

“This way,” Jason says, and he leads Asad up the steeper part of the hill, where there are more trees. The hill dips back down into a valley further on, where the foliage is even thicker. It’s one of the few green areas left in Gotham save for Robinson Park, and tonight, he’s thankful for that.

Normally he’d go as fast as his legs could carry him, but now, he tones it down for Asad. Grabs him by the arm and leads him through shortcuts, over logs and under branches. They stick to the denser parts of the woods, woods Jason knows by now like the back of his hand. They skid to a stop in a clearing, where they both bend over to catch their breath.

“I think,” Jason gasps, sweat running down his brow, “think we made i—”

_Thud._

Jason’s back hits the ground and it knocks the wind out of him. He flails on instinct before he knows what he’s reacting to; something that came out of a tree and landed on him, hard, but he doesn’t know what or who yet.

“C’mon, kid,” the person above him says. “Make it easy…”

By now, Jason can tell his attacker is a woman. He can tell little else about what she looks like, too concerned with trying to break her hold as she grabs his wrists. A flash of dark skin here, dense curls there, but never an actual picture of her face to take and hold in his mind.

And then there’s a _BANG._

And Jason falls limp.

It takes him a few seconds to take stock of what just happened. One of his eyes is blind; both of his ears are ringing, high-pitched and irritating. He can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t feel anything but intense pain in his head, right between the eyes. Can feel his blood spread out underneath him in a seeping pool.

Has he just been shot in the fucking head?

His ears continue to ring as the heavy weight on his chest lifts up and off. Now, finally, he can see his attacker properly as she stands on her feet above him.

Dark clothes. Dark skin. Dark hair. Dressed like someone who wants to stay hidden, long black sleeves and heavy gloves.

And dripping blood from a hole in her chest.

Her mouth, moving. Jason can barely hear what she’s saying through the screeching sound that feels like it’s squeezing down around him.

“ _\--have to sh— me like— ‘at?_ ” the woman says, looking behind her at someone Jason can’t see.

Someone.

_Asad._

A second voice, just as muffled, but deeper, Jason can tell that much. “ _Don’t ha— ‘ime to waste o— curing the target._ ”

Target? What? Jason blinks rapidly, trying to will his body to work, to do anything but lie here and stare blankly up at the sky.

“-- _eah. The helic— waiting, Tiger._ ”

The woman steps forward, walking out of Jason’s line of sight, seemingly unperturbed by her gaping chest injury. And into his vision crosses Asad, standing there with a small gun in his hand.

Jason wants to bite him. Wants to sit up and sink his teeth into the bastard’s cheek as he kneels down next to Jason’s body. Wants to scream, to ask him why, to say he regrets ever giving him a chance.

“ _\--orry,_ ” Asad says, a frown on his face. “ _It will— ake sen— due time. I… --ly am sorry._ ”

_Fuck you,_ Jason thinks, as his body is picked up and carried to a rapidly-descending helicopter.

Jason doesn’t fight back as the guards unstrap him from the gurney and force his hands into cuffs high above his head. He doesn’t try to get away. Right now, he’s Jason the scared little tire thief, not Jason the agent. He hangs there, arms progressively getting more tired as time goes on. He doesn’t know how much time; it feels like hours, or maybe an entire night. He falls into an uneasy sleep after a while, plagued by nightmares of what’s to come.

It isn’t until he hears footsteps echoing off the stone walls that he wakes up, groggy and unfocused. Head hanging down, he first catches sight of immaculately-polished shoes and pressed slacks. Slowly, he looks up, eyes roaming over the suit that must cost the equivalent of several months’ salary to most hardworking people.

And then there’s the mask.

The same mask that Roman Sionis was wearing when they met. Pitch black, styled like a skull. What he wears when he’s operating as Black Mask, a gangster slowly gaining a monopoly on Gotham’s underworld scene. Jason’s read enough briefings about him to know that much.

He goes over what he knows about Sionis in his head. Sadistic. Ruthless. Money-hungry. The owner of Janus Meat Processing, after his parents died in a mysterious house fire. A relatively well-respected presence in Gotham’s socialite scene, if only because no one wants to be on the wrong side of his outbursts when he goes off.

Lucky for Jason, he’s found his way onto that wrong side already. Hooray.

“Ah,” Sionis says after a moment. “You’re awake. How are you finding your accommodations?”

Okay. Acting time. Jason looks up with practiced fear in his eyes.

“I’m s-sorry about your tires,” he says. “Really. I can make it up to you, can’t I? Wash your car, clean your house, do whatever you want. Just lemme try, okay? Lemme—”

“Oh, you’ll do whatever I want,” Sionis says. “You’re mine now. That’s not going to change no matter how much you beg.”

Jason lets his expression sink, turn more desperate. “You don’t have to do this. I-I’m not on injections, okay? Please. I don’t wanna— Oh, god. Please let me go.”

“Baby,” Sionis coos. He reaches out and cups Jason’s cheek, and Jason pretends to be too scared to stop him. “I know you’re not. That’s why you’re here.”

Jason pretends to be confused. “H-huh?”

“See, I have a method for dealing with little regen shits who think they’re above the law,” Sionis says. “It’s _very_ effective. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging to be put on the market.”

Jason shakes his head. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, frantic.

“No. No no no, please— _Please._ Don’t do this,” he says, “I’m fucking begging. Okay? Is that what you want? To hear me beg? I’ll kiss your fucking shoes, I don’t— C-come _on!_ ”

He even wells up a few tears just to sell it. Despite wanting to spit in Sionis’s face and tell him exactly what he thinks of a piece of shit like him, he holds back for the sake of the mission.

Sionis hums, letting go of Jason’s face.

Then he smacks him hard across the cheek.

Pain immediately wells up where Jason’s teeth cut against the inside of his mouth. He can taste blood. And Sionis seems to smell it, like a shark honing in on injured prey.

“Jason,” he sighs. “Jason, Jason, Jason. A _thing_ like you doesn’t get to make demands of me, do you understand? You’re not a person. You’re not even human. Don’t act like you are.”

Alright, that stings. Some of the fear fades from Jason’s face, and he finds himself glowering at Sionis, jaw clenched, blood shining between his pressed-together lips.

“Aww. What’s that look for?” Sionis asks. “Don’t like that, huh? Playing pretend as a human for too long got you all confused. You’ve forgotten your place.”

Jason doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to, not with hatred welling up and burning in his chest.

“That’s right.” Locking his hands behind his back, Sionis starts to walk in a slow circle around Jason. It’s cliche as hell, but still somehow manages to make the hair on the back of Jason’s neck stand on end. “You exist to be a servant to humans. To feed us. To entertain us. It’s what you were put on this earth for. And _nothing_ you can say to me is going to change that.”

“So, what?” Jason asks, and can’t stop his voice from coming out snappy. “You’re just gonna torture me, is that it? Until I, what? Agree to be your obedient little toy?”

Sionis chuckles as he makes his way back around to Jason’s front.

“Oh, Jason,” he says in that condescending asshole voice of his. “No. No, no. I’m going to torture you…” And he leans in close, until their foreheads are almost touching. Lowers his voice like he’s telling a secret. “...because I want to. Because I like it.”

The admission isn’t a surprise to Jason, but it still sends a shudder up his spine.

He can take it, though. He _has_ to take it. He was put on this earth to do something, but that something is not “serving Roman Sionis.”

No. It’s something else. Something he didn’t even know about until Tiger came into his life.

Jason misses much of the helicopter ride. His thoughts are all askew, much like his brain. All he knows is that the woman who attacked him is now holding his head in her lap, despite the blood. Petting his head as it throbs. Whispering things to him that he can’t hear.

He doesn’t see Asad for the rest of the trip.

It’s a surprise he’s even able to think as much as he is with a bullet through his brain. Low-caliber, maybe, or it just didn’t strike the right parts. It’s not like Jason knows for sure, he’s never been shot in the head. Has never felt anything so blindingly painful, and he can’t even move or scream or cry. All he can do is fade in and out of semi-consciousness, watching the woman’s lips move.

He doesn’t know how long it takes them to get to their destination. Can feel himself being carried when the helicopter touches down, somewhere where the night is clear, free of Gotham’s oppressive smog. He can see trees, upside-down from where his head is slumped. Doesn’t even know who’s carrying him. Thinking hurts.

They put him down inside, in what seems like an infirmary of some sort. The bed is a hospital bed for sure, and there are monitors nearby, though they don’t connect him to any of them. Why would they? What’s he gonna do, flatline?

He expects them to leave him there, but the woman doesn’t. She sits by his bedside, his hand in both of hers, stroking it with a thumb. Jason’s torn between wanting to yank his hand away and wanting to lean into it, this comforting, almost motherly touch. Not something he’s ever experienced before, that’s for sure. But the circumstances make it… less than ideal.

It’s not like he could do either one if he wanted. He sits there for who knows how long — there are no clocks or windows in the room. Hours, maybe. Everything feels distorted, time doesn’t seem to be working right, which he chalks up to the way his brains are currently scrambled more than breakfast eggs.

Eventually, though, his foot twitches.

Then his finger.

Then he blinks his eyes rapidly, his vision starting to return in the blind one.

“He’s awake,” he hears beside the bed.

A moment later, the door opens. In walks Asad, out of his street clothes and in something that looks almost military-esque. Tight compression shirt, heavy vest with lots of pockets and pouches, combat boots. In the light, Jason can see three scars on his forehead peeking out just under his shemagh.

Immediately, his body jerks. He still can’t move properly, can’t get a hold of his heavy limbs, but he tries. Oh, he tries.

“Jason.” Asad comes to a stop by his bedside. “Allow me to express my deepest apologies for the way we had to meet.”

“Fffhh,” Jason grits out. He can’t control his mouth, and his formerly-blind eye is twitching out of his control. “Fhhnn.”

“Give it a minute or two,” the woman beside him says, squeezing his hand. “Don’t push it.”

“I know you must think terribly lowly of me,” Asad says, “but I’ll ask you to put aside those feelings and hear me out.”

Jason glares and says nothing. His limbs continue to twitch as proper feeling floods back into them.

“First off, I lied to you. That much is obvious,” he says. “My name is not Asad. It is Tiger. And I apologize for shooting you. We did not have the time to sit around and talk with the GCPD on their way.”

“Fhhnnn,” Jason tries, despite the resistance he feels from his still-injured brain. “Fhhck. Fuhhh—”

Asad — Tiger — stops to listen to him this time. “Yes?”

“Fuhhh— Fuck.” Jason pauses, and then his entire upper body rocks up, only to crash back down onto the bed. “Fucker. _Fucker._ ”

To his surprise, the woman beside him barks out a laugh. Tiger glances sidelong at her.

“This,” he says, “is Helena. She is the one who ran from Falcone, not me. She has been an agent with us for several years right now.”

Jason furrows his brow, drooling down his chin after that last outburst. He wants to ask what the fuck this guy is talking about, but all he can do is make aborted noises, half-words.

Tiger answers his unspoken question anyway. “I am the Patron of an organization called Spyral. To make a long story short, we would like your help.”

“Mmm.” Jason struggles, trying to test out his limbs. His hand curls against Helena’s, clenching down as his body comes back to itself. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Tiger says. He begins to slowly walk around the bed, from Helena’s side to the other. “You are an unchipped immortal, meaning you are impossible to trace. No family. No friends. Invisible. A perfect fit for our organization.”

Jason’s mouth twitches where it’s screwed into a permanent frown. It’s all true, but he doesn’t appreciate how this man seems to know so much about him when they’ve only just met. How long has he been on this organization’s radar?

He continues to glare, his limbs twitching. He wants to reach out and strangle this presumptuous prick.

Tiger keeps talking despite Jason’s clear disgust.

“I know this is quite a lot to take in,” he says, “but trust me when I say that we do a lot of good for this world. Removing corruption from public office. Taking out dangerous targets. We have a mission, Jason, and we think you would be a valuable asset to our team.”

“Ifff. If,” Jason starts, and he feels the words start to come a little bit easier, his tongue less of a dead weight in his mouth. “I— I don’t.”

“Ah.” Tiger looks down at him and nods. “You have that right. But according to the laws of the government entity under which we operate, all unchipped immortals must be sent to a breeding facility to be entered into the system and sold.”

So that’s the score. He works for them, or he gets put on the market and turned into a piece of meat to be commodified.

Well. There’s only one thing Jason can say.

“Fine.”

So here he is. Undercover, underground, under Roman Sionis’s thumb. On a covert mission to try and take down the burgeoning crime lord’s empire from the inside out.

A fucking street kid regen tasked with something like that. Who’da thunk?

As Sionis’s hands wander down his body, Jason tries to keep his eyes on the prize. Gotham may be a shithole, but it’s his home, and a creep like Sionis is only gonna make things worse. He already has a borderline monopoly on Gotham’s meat processing industry. Letting him get a proper foothold in the East Coast’s underworld would be disastrous.

“So serious,” Sionis says, dragging his hands down Jason’s sides. “What’s that look for? We’re just gonna have a little fun, you and me…”

Jason licks his lips, forcing himself to get back into character. As far as Sionis knows, he’s just a runt with no training, and that’s how he’s going to act.

“Don’t, I— Oh, fuck.” His eyes catch the blade of a knife that Sionis pulls out of his pocket and unfolds. “Oh, fuck, please don’t.”

“What?” Sionis asks, grabbing the hem of Jason’s hoodie. “These clothes are hideous. We need to get them off.”

“Nonono— Hey,” Jason says, because he knows a guy like Sionis gets off on the begging, the desperation. The knife slices cleanly up through his hoodie, revealing the beaten t-shirt underneath. “Let’s just talk. Please, let’s just talk—”

“Okay.” Sionis cuts through both sleeves, and the hoodie falls to the dirty floor. “Talk.”

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, cutting through Jason’s t-shirt next. Jason squirms, his shoulders aching with how long they’ve been stretched above his head. His feet skim the floor, not enough to give him anything resembling a decent foothold.

“I don’t— I can’t— I-I’ll do better work for you if I’m not hurt, I’m a really good worker,” he babbles. “ _Really_ good. What, do you, do you need someone to run drugs? I’m your guy. I— _Hey—_ ”

With a rip, the last of Jason’s shirt comes apart, joining his hoodie on the ground. Sionis taps the edge of the knife down Jason’s front, stopping on the button of his jeans.

“This conversation isn’t exactly _stimulating,_ baby,” he says. “I can think of a few other things I’d rather be doing than listening to you whine.”

Jason stops, looking at Sionis like he’s searching for a trace of mercy in those eyes behind his mask. He knows he won’t find one, but he looks anyway.

Sionis’s eyes are blue. Cold in their lightness, their striking gaze. Blue eyes, Jason thinks, don’t suit a man like that, a man who’d look better with pits of darkness for eyes that are just as black as his soul.

With a flick of the wrist, Sionis cuts the button off of Jason’s pants. That gets Jason to struggle anew.

“Wh-what are you— Hey!” Sionis doesn’t stop to listen, winding his fingers under Jason’s waistband. “Don’t, please don’t—”

“God, you’re pathetic, aren’t you?” Yanking down, Sionis rids Jason of his pants and his boxers in one fell swoop. “Listen to you. Babbling like a virgin on a pirate ship.”

That brings to mind a very _specific_ mental image, and Jason, now bare, doesn’t like the looks of it. He especially doesn’t like the way Sionis’s fingers make their way up his legs, one hand still holding that knife.

“Not a bad body,” Sionis hums. “You sure do hide it under all that ratty clothing, don’t you? But you’re alright, kid.”

Jason wants to bare his teeth and tell Sionis his body isn’t meant to be looked at by drooling old perverts like him, but he keeps his expression carefully trained, worried, open. All the ways that a normal kid might look in his situation.

“What,” Jason starts, licking his lips when he realizes they’ve gone dry again. “What are you gonna do to me?”

Sionis chuckles, dark and foreboding.

“Have you ever been fucked in the ass before, Jason?”

Jason freezes. It’s not like he’s shocked by the idea that Sionis might rape him, but hearing it out loud just makes it worse. Makes it real.

“I… No,” he says, because it’s the only answer he can give. It’s what Sionis wants to hear. “N-no, don’t— don’t do that, I—”

Pain. Blinding, searing pain, just under his ribs. It happens so fast that Jason isn’t even sure _what_ happened until he looks down and sees Sionis’s knife lodged in his side. His ears ring with the echo of a scream that he doesn’t even remember letting out.

“Shh, baby,” Sionis coos, petting Jason’s hair back with his free hand, cupping his face. “Baby. Look at me.” His fingers tighten. “ _Look_ at me.”

The intensity in Sionis’s voice gives Jason very little choice. Face open and agonized, he blinks through the pain to look up at him.

“There are two ways this can go down,” Sionis says. “One: I fuck you. It’s gonna be hard. It’s gonna hurt. You’re probably not gonna like it very much, unless it turns out you’re a fucking slut.”

The shiver that runs down Jason’s spine isn’t an act. It’s reprehensible, what this guy is saying. But he has to keep listening.

“Two: I pull your guts out and I fuck those. One by one, nice and slow…” He sounds like he’s smiling under that mask, and his eyes certainly back up that idea. “...’Kay?”

He’s a freak. A sick, disgusting freak, and a pervert, and a degenerate, and a million and one other nasty things Jason could think about if he had time to think. But he doesn’t, not with Sionis looking to him for his decision like that. Not with the knife still in his side.

“O-o-okay,” he stutters, nodding, and lets a few tears fall to wet his cheeks, too. “Okay. Okay! Y-you can fuck me. Alright? You can fuck me.”

“Don’t say it like you’re the one giving me permission,” Sionis snarls, and he pulls the knife out just to plunge it back in again. He speaks over Jason’s low howl of pain. “I don’t like your attitude, kid. I want you asking me for it. _Begging_ me.”

Jason nods more, letting more tears fall, face beginning to shine with sweat. “Y-y-yeah, yeah, o-okay, okay, okay— F-fuck me. Pl-please—”

Sionis chuckles. He pulls the knife out, slower this time, and pushes it back in just as slowly, into the same bleeding hole.

Jason jerks and howls, chains shaking above him, but Sionis doesn’t let up. More frantic, he continues, “ _Please!_ Oh, fuck me please, I-I want it, I— _Please_ please, ohmygod oh god _please…_ ”

As the knife comes to a stop, Jason realizes his crying isn’t all an act now. He’s felt some pretty painful shit in training, but this is different. It’s deliberate. This isn’t an attack to be defended against, it’s torture. Real torture.

Sionis lets him suffer there for another minute, sobbing out desperate pleas, before he hums and pulls the knife out for good this time. Jason shivers, knees nearly knocking together where he hangs from his cuffs.

“Wow.” A low whistle. “You’re really desperate for it, aren’t you? Look at you… So _wet_ for Daddy…”

Sionis puts the bloody knife down on a nearby table, right next to a bunch of other ugly-looking implements that Jason doesn’t want to think too much about. Then his fingers find the hole, rubbing around the raw edges like a tease. Jason jerks in his bonds, letting himself make whatever noises his body wants to make. Low moans of pain, loud screams; he’d like to hold back and let the bastard’s balls go blue, but he can’t. Needs to make sure he’s the single most interesting thing in Roman Sionis’s life right now.

“Please,” he continues, as one of Sionis’s fingers slowly edges into the bloody hole. “ _Please!_ Just fuck me, just f-fucking—” He sucks in a shaky breath, letting it out as a sob. “— _fuck me!_ I want it, I want it, I w-want _it oh my god—_ ”

Sionis slides his fingers out of the hole and hums in pleasure. “There’s my good slut. I knew you’d be begging for my cock before long.”

Maybe it’s a mistake, the way Jason glares up at Sionis through his bangs. Maybe it’s a sign that he shouldn’t be an agent, that he can’t control his emotions. But he can’t help himself. He’s never met a more reprehensible, slimy person. Someone who would torture a person into begging to be raped and then click their tongue at them.

If Jason wasn’t entirely in before, it’s that moment, that one second, where it clicks. Where it becomes less Spyral’s mission, and more his mission.

He’s going to fucking kill this motherfucker.

Sionis catches his eye, and Jason wonders if he knows. Wonders, later on, if it’s why he decided to keep Jason close, rather than as just another sad thing rotting in a cell.

But it’s just one moment, and then it’s gone. Then he’s sad, scared little Jason again, hiccuping with sobs as Sionis goes over to the wall and pulls on a lever connected to the chains keeping Jason upright. The chain goes slack, and Jason falls in a heap on the floor, the impact sending shocks of pain up through his side.

Sionis takes his sweet old time walking back to Jason. Whistles a tune while he does it, like it’s Sunday morning brunch. Then, when he’s beside him, he bends down and snatches Jason up by the hair, heaving him over to a barrel, which he bends him over.

“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” Sionis coos into his ear.

Jason, wrists still bound in chains, grabs onto the edge of the barrel and does as he’s told.

_So this is it,_ he thinks as he hears Sionis’s zipper come down behind him. _Your first time. Real special, huh?_

It didn’t have to be like this. It was never going to be _good,_ but it didn’t have to be like _this._

Jason’s first day waking up at Spyral’s base is conflicting for a few different reasons.

For starters, after moving him from the infirmary, they gave him a bed more comfortable than anything he’s been on in his life. It’s no huge queen-sized luxury mattress, just a normal twin, but Jason’s never had much more than a bug-ridden box-spring or a few pieces of damp cardboard to lay down on before. In comparison, this modest bed is like heaven.

When he blinks into consciousness, he also notices that someone has brought tea to his bedside, along with a few assorted pastries. He takes a croissant, and as he picks it apart, he tries to gather his bearings.

It’s nice. And that’s the problem.

Slavery isn’t supposed to be _nice._ And that’s what this is, isn’t it? Sure, Tiger assured him that he’d be “compensated fairly” for his efforts, but he’s not allowed to go take that money and live on his own. He’s not allowed to make his own honest living doing what he wants. He’s bound to Spyral’s will, for as long as they decide to keep him.

And then what? It’s a question he hasn’t asked, but that’s been plaguing his mind since he agreed. Is he in for a trip to the auction house no matter what after this?

But it’s not like he has a choice in the matter. At least this way, he reasons, he might be able to do some goddamn good in the world.

Maybe. He’s still not sure if this organization is anywhere near as well-intentioned as it makes itself out to be. And what shady spy cabal is ever _honest?_

No, Jason doesn’t trust these bastards as far as he can throw them, but there’s nothing he can do but obey. All his life, he’s been running from this sort of fate, but now it’s finally caught up to him. Funny how that shit works.

It’s Helena who fetches him after he’s had some time to eat his breakfast (and ascertain that it hasn’t been laced with anything, or at least not anything fast-acting). Healed up and out of her bloody clothes from the previous night, she leads him out of his room, tossing him a bundle of clothes on their way out.

“I’ll take you to the changing rooms,” she tells him, “and then we’ll start your training.”

She leaves him on his own in the changing rooms, where he gets dressed in the t-shirt and sweats she gave him. They’re nice, too, nicer than the rags he’s been wearing. The thought makes him self-conscious about his smell; showers are far, few and between for someone like him, and he’s tempted by the stalls in the room, but he doesn’t go for them. Too used to being filthy, he guesses, and he’s certain that he’s just going to need another shower after whatever “training” they’re going to be putting him through.

He walks out, ready to meet up with Helena and get shit started.

But it’s not Helena who greets him when he makes his way into the large gymnasium attached to the changing rooms.

It’s Tiger.

Jason bristles as soon as he sees him. Tiger looks different than before, with his headscarf gone, showing off his forehead scars in full. He’s got a head of dark brown hair, which he runs a hand through as he approaches Jason.

“Jason. Thank you for coming so early,” he says.

“Yeah.” Jason nods. “My schedule was really booked, but I was just _so_ excited to come to this little shindig, I cancelled all my other appointments.”

Something lights up in Tiger’s eyes, and the corner of his lips curls up into half a smirk. “Well, I am glad I made it to number one on your priority list. Come.”

He nods, turning to lead Jason deeper into the room. Workout equipment of all kinds is strewn about the place; barbells, leg presses, treadmills. It looks (and smells) well-used, and Tiger makes his way around it with a grace that suggests he could weave through all the equipment with his eyes shut.

When they get to the other side of the room, Tiger bends down, opening a small first aid kit on a bench.

“Hold out your hands,” he says, pulling out a small roll of bandages. Jason notices that Tiger’s own hands are already wrapped up in them, and he can see where this is going.

“We’re gonna fight,” he says. Not a question.

“Yes,” Tiger confirms. “Do you know how?”

Jason shrugs. “Never done it before. Not unless you count brawling for scraps in Crime Alley.”

“There is a merit to that style of fighting,” Tiger says, “but today, we will be learning something a little bit more sophisticated.”

Jason holds out his hands and lets Tiger get to wrapping them. “I gonna be doing a lot of fighting on this top-secret super-mission of mine?”

“Missions,” Tiger tells him, “plural. That is the hope, at any rate.”

“Right.” Jason looks down as the bandages wind around his hands, and he can’t help but feel a little silly. “This kind of feels like a mortal thing to do.”

“I figured you would want the bit of extra padding,” Tiger says as he finishes up. “But if you would prefer to take them off…”

Jason rolls his shoulders in another shrug. “It’s whatever. How we doing this?”

“Bright and eager to learn,” Tiger says, stepping into an area in the center of the room with a few blue mats, but nothing else. “I like that. Come here.”

Jason follows, cracking his knuckles and his neck. He may not be enthusiastic about this place and their mission in general, but if it involves punching the shit out of Tiger?

Yeah. He can get behind that.

“Alright,” he says. “Start us off. Show me what to do.”

Tiger smirks.

“As you wish.”

_Thump._ Jason falls back and cracks his head on the hard floor, missing the mat by an inch. He feels his skull throb with pain, and estimates that, with how hard he went down, it’s probably broken. Again.

“Up,” Tiger barks at him. “Hit me.”

For what feels like the fiftieth time, Jason drags himself to his feet, then charges forward with his fists swinging. Tiger sidesteps him and grabs his arm. With one swift twist, he breaks it at the elbow, and Jason falls to his knees, screaming.

“You still have one good arm,” Tiger says, walking around him in a leisurely circle. “Up. No excuses.”

It’s been days since their first sparring session. Long days, jam-packed with lessons and practical applications. Long, hard, painful days.

Jason shakily gets to his feet. With a wince, he cracks his inverted elbow back into place, letting his left arm dangle uselessly by his side. Blood drips down from where the bone has erupted through the skin.

He pays it no mind, charging forward again. Nearly clips Tiger this time, but then a fist lands in his kidney, and he collapses, feeling a painful twinge in his bladder. Fuck. He’s going to piss blood if Tiger gets in another hit like that.

“Work through the pain,” comes Tiger’s ever-droning voice. “You have been through worse. You will go through worse. _Up._ ”

Jason waits until Tiger circles close enough, then kicks out, landing a mean hit to his knee. But Tiger doesn’t buckle, only sways, grunting and slamming a boot into Jason’s chest. Jason takes it and rolls, even though it makes his broken arm sear with pain, until he can stand up on the other end of their little fighting ring and glare, panting, at Tiger.

“You know what you have to do,” Tiger says, barely a scratch on him. There’s a bruise on the high point of his cheek from a few days ago, going yellow and green on his skin. Mortals take so long to heal. “Do it.”

Jason waits another second, then bolts forward. Tiger meets him in the middle, and they clash, Tiger blocking a hard punch. A knee to the groin follows, Tiger moving out of the way just in time to make it a knee to the gut, instead. While he’s bent over, Jason does the first thing that comes to his mind.

Standing behind Tiger, he reaches around him, grabbing the wrist of his limp, broken arm. Then he pulls his arm up, hooking his mangled elbow under Tiger’s chin, using his unbroken hand to tighten the hold. The pain is intense, and Jason’s legs give in, sending both him and Tiger crashing to the ground.

But he doesn’t let go. He just pulls _tighter,_ to the point where he can feel the broken edge of his bone poking into the soft meat under Tiger’s jaw. First he feels one swat to his side, then another. Three more slap the ground next to them, and Jason finally lets go, his left arm flopping ungracefully to his side.

He and Tiger are both slick with blood and sweat, panting there in a heap on the ground. Tiger takes a second to roll off of Jason, coughing, bringing a hand up to rub his neck where a few holes have been pierced into the skin.

“That…” Tiger pants. “...was good. Very good, _sibi._ ”

Sometimes Tiger speaks words in a language Jason doesn’t understand. He can only wonder what sorts of insults he’s hiding under that second tongue of his.

But he doesn’t have it in him to care. He just lies on his back, holding his arm into place to help it heal. With such a ragged, agitated wound, it’ll take a little longer than a usual break. So, speaking of breaks, he thinks he deserves one.

“I think,” Tiger starts after a moment, “we can start adding additional training into the mix now.”

“More?” Jason asks, raising a brow. Aside from just the combat training, there’s already the disguise training. The general education in the library. The language training (though they haven’t taught him anything in Tiger’s language yet). Spyral has him doing something every second of the day; he can’t imagine what else there is to torment him with.

“Yes,” Tiger nods. “Poppy or Helena will be your partner, depending on which of them is available. Get yourself cleaned up. I will inform them that I’m approving you for honeypot training.”

“Wait,” Jason says, and he pushes himself up on his good elbow, wincing. “ _What_ training?”

“Honeypot,” Tiger says simply, starting to unwind the bloodied bandages around his knuckles. “In order to be an agent of Spyral, one must be prepared to do whatever it takes for the sake of the mission. Sometimes, this involves seduction.”

Jason freezes. Something cold, not unlike a bead of sweat, drips down his spine.

“You’re saying I’m gonna have sex with them,” he says. “Helena or Poppy. They’re gonna train me to…”

“To successfully seduce a target, yes,” Tiger says. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

Tiger turns to face him more fully, arching a brow. “Excuse me?”

Jason swallows the lump in his throat, and says more firmly, “I’m not doing it.”

“I did not ask you if you wanted to,” Tiger tells him.

“I know,” Jason says. “But I’m telling you, I’m not gonna do it. No way.”

“Jason,” Tiger says, in that condescending way someone might talk to a kindergartener they’re about to discipline. “I know that we have asked very much of you in a very short period of time. I am aware you are not my biggest fan. But this training is required of all agents—”

“Let’s not and say we did,” Jason interrupts. “That sound good to you?”

“No,” Tiger says. “No, it does not. Now, if you are attracted to men, that is acceptable, but you must be able to be with a woman if—”

“What? No!” Jason’s face lights up redder than the blood still dripping out of his mutilated arm. “No, that’s not— _No._ The _reason_ I am not doing it is because I’m not going to be fucking seducing anyone for your stupid shit missions. And I’m sure as shit not gonna sleep with someone as a fucking _training exercise._ ”

“...Jason,” Tiger says after a moment, scrutinizing him with eyes that seem to see right through him. “Are you a _virgin?_ ”

“I— I’m—” Jason grasps for words, for a way to respond to that that isn’t entirely incriminating. In doing so, he says all he needs to say, and it shows on Tiger’s face.

“If that is the case,” Tiger says, “you are free to choose who you would like to train with. I can be accommodating.”

“Oh, yeah, real accommodating,” Jason says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “‘You have to have sex with one of these people, but I’ll let you pick one out like a kid in a fucking candy store!’ Yeah, no thanks. Answer’s still no.”

“Jason—”

“The answer,” Jason reiterates, struggling to his feet one-handed, “is _no._ Maybe _you_ need some lessons in consent, buddy, but I sure as shit don’t need to be taught how to kiss an ass.”

“All signs point to the contrary,” comes Tiger’s voice from behind him as Jason stalks off.

At the time, those weeks after, Jason had thanked Helena for lying. For telling Tiger that he’d eventually relented to the training, which always occurred behind closed doors.

Now, with Sionis’s cock pressed to his hole, he wonders if he made the right decision. If maybe Helena would’ve given him a “Taking It Up the Ass 101” class or something.

But it’s too late to think about that now. Too late to do anything but grip the edge of the barrel, wait as Sionis collects blood from his side to use to slick up his cock. He doesn’t bother working a finger inside Jason first, doesn’t take the time to prepare him for any of it. Just holds onto his hips and presses in, and oh, _god,_ Jason is going to vomit.

He never thought it’d be like this. Never imagined his first time could be so _gut-wrenching._ He hardly wants to think of it as his first time at all. Is there a way to make this not count? To write it out of his sexual history, pretend like it never happened? Hell, he’s already ahead of the game there, pretending like it isn’t happening as it happens. Pressing his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, he tries to hold out, tries not to give Sionis the satisfaction of hearing how badly this hurts him.

But, when Sionis’s cockhead pops in and he keeps going, pushing past Jason’s resistance, he can’t stay quiet. Surprising himself, he _sobs,_ first once, then again, until eventually he finds himself blubbering under Sionis. The pain is intense as Sionis pushes all the way in, but it’s more than that. It’s an intimate kind of pain, and Jason has felt pain in his life, but never like this. Never naked, never shaking like a leaf, never bent over and helpless, chained up and dripping blood and snot and tears.

And Sionis laughs. The bastard _laughs,_ and it’s rough and it’s deep and it’s tainted with lust. Jason can _hear_ how much he likes it, can hear from the strain in his voice how much pleasure he’s feeling, roughly shoving his blood-covered dick into Jason’s unprepared ass.

“Baby,” he says, “you are the _tightest_ little thing I’ve felt in fucking ages. Regens, huh? It always feels like the first time…”

He stops, and Jason realizes he can feel Sionis’s hips pressed against his. He’s all the way inside. And it feels fucking enormous, like he’s being split in half by it. Jason’s nails scramble at the wood underneath them, big teardrops falling to splatter there.

With a grunt, Sionis pulls out halfway, then slams back in, and Jason cries out so loud that his throat throbs. From there, it’s exactly as Sionis promised: fast, hard, and it _hurts._ Feels like he’s being speared over and over again by a hot poker. And Jason realizes with a sinking feeling that he isn’t acting any more; his tears, his screams, his babbling, it’s all genuine.

“Nononono,” he cries, nails scraping at the wood so hard it hurts. “Please just— pl-please, slow d-down! Oh my god, _hrk—_ ” He feels bile rise in the back of his throat, and he quickly swallows it back down. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck-k-k-k_ —”

“Oh my god,” Sionis says with a put-upon sigh, “will you shut the fuck up?”

Jason can’t help himself; he looks back over his shoulder and glares. It’s a withering thing, probably not very intimidating with his face all red and blotchy and wet with tears, but it’s all he can do to show Sionis just how much he _hates_ him. Hates him more than any motherfucker he’s ever met.

Sionis takes the opportunity to reach up past Jason’s head. Jason realizes a second later, when his hands jolt under him, that Sionis is pulling the lid off the barrel. He has half a mind to keep hold of it, make it harder for him, but he lets the wooden lid get pulled away against his better judgment.

He regrets it a second later, when Sionis pushes his face into the water it’s filled with.

Immediately, Jason begins to fight, grabbing the edge of the barrel in an attempt to push himself up. Sionis keeps a hand tight in the back of his hair, holding him down while he continues to pound away. Jason thinks he hears him say something, but it’s impossible to tell what it is through the water and the rushing in his ears.

He tries to hold his breath. He does, he tries for as long as possible, but he can’t hold it long enough. He doesn’t _need_ to breathe to survive, but he still has a human’s brain, and it regulates his bodily functions the same way. When his lungs burn too much, he opens his mouth and tries to suck in a breath despite himself, only to get two lungfuls of water.

Immediately, he tries to cough it out, but every breath in only replaces water with more water. It’s agonizing, torturous, so much so that he almost doesn’t register Sionis’s cock in his ass. But it’s still there, and he does feel it, making his legs quiver and his back spike with pain.

As if that isn’t enough, Jason feels Sionis’s other hand creep up his side, to the quickly-healing stab wound there. Careless of the flesh weaving itself back together, Sionis shoves a finger back into the hole, wiggling it around, and Jason screams. Or, well, he tries to, but just ends up blowing more bubbles in the turbulent water.

He writhes. He kicks. He smacks the side of the barrel hard, feels the water slosh over the sides. If he could just spill enough of it, then there won’t be enough for Sionis to drown him in. But, god, even his involuntary flailing is taking a lot out of him, his entire body throbbing with pain inside and out. He feels like his chest is going to burst with how much water he’s being forced to suck down, unable to black out, unable to get any relief.

It feels like hours go by. Days. Endless minutes with nothing to keep him company but his own desperate gurgling, and the steadfast pumping of Sionis’s cock in his ass. But then, finally, _finally,_ Sionis stills. Jason feels a rush of something warm and wet inside himself, stinging his internal wounds. He wants to vomit even more than before.

Abruptly, he’s yanked up by his hair and tossed to the floor. Immediately, he curls in on himself, barfing up what feels like gallons of water. It takes a moment for his blurry vision to clear up, for him to be able to clearly see Sionis’s polished shoes in front of his face. The pain is intense, feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside, even now that Sionis isn’t actively touching him.

“Hah… You’re pathetic.” Sionis lifts an immaculate shoe and places it on Jason’s cheek, shoving his face into the wet, hard floor. “Look at you. One cock, and you’re like this. Don’t you have any dignity?”

_Yeah. One cock, a stab wound or two, and a barrel full of water,_ Jason thinks. _No big deal._

He says nothing. Just glares at the bottom of the barrel, the only thing he can properly see with Sionis squishing his face into the ground.

“But,” Sionis continues, “I suppose you did milk my cock real nice. So I won’t have you incinerated.” He heaves a sigh. “I’ll have the guards show you to your new room. It’s no Four Seasons, but I’m sure you’ll like it better than whatever hole you crawled out of.”

He lifts his foot off of Jason’s face, and Jason coughs out a little more water.

This time, he looks up. This time, he lets himself glare as hard as he wants, even as the guards hoist him up and toss him into a dark, empty cell. He hopes Sionis knows how he feels. _Wants_ him to know.

Because when he takes this motherfucker down?

He wants Sionis to know exactly who was behind his downfall.

**Author's Note:**

> find more of me [HERE](https://linktr.ee/herecomesnaya)


End file.
